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morning, trusting that the porters would have settled down from their
insurrection and would be willing to take to the road, and before anyone could
ask where I was staying, I invented an almost-missed appointment and hurried
away.
My steps dawdled through the shambling lower bazaar, however, my fingers
playing with the warm beads in my pocket as my mind went over and over the
episode in the shop. It was the thing I liked least, in all the requirements
of this odd investigative life which I had entered when I became the partner
of Sherlock Holmes: the need to use and manipulate the innocent.
At times, the means by which we reached our end left a most unpleasant taste
in my mouth.
I spent all of Sundaywandering the mountains above Simla, ostensibly asking
questions about Kimball O Hara, but in fact merely enjoying the glimpse of a
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new world. I hiked the lanes past native dwellings stacked on top of each
other, around furniture shops and blacksmiths spilling out into the road,
dodging mountain people with huge tangles of firewood or anonymous bundles
across their shoulders, balanced on their heads, or worn in longkirtabaskets
slung between their shoulders. Craftsmen sawed and hammered, infants tumbled,
and schoolboys played a Himalayan version of cricket. A mountain of immense
deodar logs had been built outside of the town, and on its peak sat a lone
monkey, looking very cold. I was more of a stranger in this remarkable land
than the simian was, and I prized every moment of the experience. Particularly
when, once away from the centre of the town, the beggars became thin on the
ground, and I could look the residents in the eye without fearing the
outstretched hand.
I found no word whatsoever of O Hara, and got back to Viceregal Lodge when
the sun was low against the western hills, footsore, light-headed from the
long exertion at that altitude, and yearning for many cups of hot tea. The tea
was provided within moments, and as the man was leaving, he said,  Madam,
thedurziand the shoemaker are at your convenience. When you wish to see them,
please ring.
I had forgotten all about them, and frankly was not looking forward to the
interviews, since I did not expect that anything they had produced would be
wearable in any but a last resort. But obediently, when I had drunk my tea and
scrubbed away the worst of the day s dust, I rang the bell and prepared my
words of polite thanks.
But thedurziwas a magician. Open-mouthed, I looked over the wares he spread
out on the chairs of the anteroom. Two of the blouses appeared identical to
one I had given him for copying, but three others, while cut to the same size,
had clever details of cuff and front that the original had not. The four
skirts he proffered were similar variations on a given theme, and my thanks
and praise had no element of polite sham. And then, with a curious air of
humble pride, he had his assistant produce the last garments.
 Nesbitsahibrequested that I make this as well, the old man told me.  He
said,  If the lady does not wish it, that is of no matter, but it is best she
have the choice. 
What he spread out on the stuffed sofa was a classicsalwaar kameez,only far,
far more formal than anything I d seen on the streets. Voluminous trousers,
gathered at the ankle into stiff, embroidered cuffs, matched the knee-length
tunic, which was worked with intertwined patterns of beaded embroidery along
the neck and down the buttoned placket, as well as following the two long
seams that ran up the front and down the back. With the shirt and trousers
came a breathtaking Kashmiri shawl woven of whisper-fine wool and heavily
embroidered with silken arabesques, so beautiful my rough hands could not keep
from caressing it. The olddurzi s eyes warmed at my response and he told me it
was his wife s work, then demonstrated how it was worn. The ensemble was even
more stunning than the sari Holmes had bought in Port Said, and every bit as
graceful, with the inestimable advantage of leaving its wearer able to walk, [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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